


the same waves

by andnowforyaya



Series: We Collected Swells [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Hawaii, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 15:21:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andnowforyaya/pseuds/andnowforyaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He couldn't help but think there was something fleeting about Stiles; it was in the ever-present energy thrumming at his fingertips, and in his laugh, and sarcasm, and how sometimes Derek would catch Stiles gazing out into the ocean, unnaturally still and unfocused, and it took longer and longer for Derek to regain his attention every time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The hours that some of Derek's clients keep are brow-raising, but that is one of the downsides of being a physical trainer for the independently wealthy who live on the coasts of Maui. When he gets home, when he passes through their front door, nose twitching at the scent - taro and honey and pineapple - he knows that Stiles is sleeping already, possibly has been for hours. He slips off his sandals and breathes in deep. The moon glows bright through the windows.

Derek treads lightly, barely making any noise as he crosses into their tiny kitchen. A bowl of rice has been left out on the mobile island, paired with another bowl of what looks like stir-fry. Intrigued, pinches a bite-sized piece of chicken from the bowl and pops it into his mouth, a smile teasing at the corners of his lips. Stiles has adjusted the spice of it, just like he'd asked. But his last client had made smoothies after their session, so it's a rare night of him not grumbling for food. Pity, since Stiles had taken the time to set it aside for him. He stores the leftovers into the refrigerator, before taking the few long strides to their bed.

When Stiles first saw the bungalow, you could hide the bed away with the sliding doors that separated it from the rest of the room, but Stiles saw no need for that. He felt like he was slowly suffocating in the closet behind those doors for the first few weeks, complained audibly about them, so Derek took them out, and the end effect was such that if they stretched themselves lengthwise on the mattress, a guest looking straight on would see legs and torsos but no heads and no feet, and the person on the far side of the mattress had to climb over the other in order to get out.

Now, Stiles has the covers pulled up around his ears. He lays on his side against the far wall, near the mosquito-netted windows, turned away from Derek. The werewolf grins. That side is usually his side, since Stiles wakes earlier and appreciates the ease of just slipping out of the covers. Maybe it was a long day, Derek thinks. It certainly had been for him.

He lifts a knee onto the bed, and it dips to accommodate him. Stiles shifts in his sleep but doesn't wake. Grinning, Derek sweeps his body over to the other's, hunching over Stiles on his elbows. He presses a feather-light kiss against the sleeping man's temple, and Stiles hums contently. Derek's lips curl at the response and he watches as lucidity gradually brings Stiles back to the surface - his nose wrinkles, there is movement behind his eyelids, and then a telltale slump of Stiles giving in to acknowledging Derek's presence.

"Tell me you showered first," Stiles mumbles, eyes still closed.

"I showered first," Derek lies easily, stealing another temple-kiss.

Stiles frowns. "You're lying; I don't have super werewolf senses, and I can smell you from here." Despite what he says, Stiles shifts so that he's flat on his back, Derek hovering close over him.

"You're dreaming," Derek tells him, nosing against Stiles' neck. Stiles twitches when the stubble on Derek's chin grazes against the soft skin there.

"I will never get over what a cuddle-bear you are," he murmurs, pleased and sleepy, before searching for one of Derek's hands with his own and, upon finding it, dragging it over the curve of his stomach and he turns back onto his side.

Derek settles in behind Stiles and says, his breath brushing against Stiles' ear, "Okay, so maybe I didn't."

"I'll get over it," Stiles slurs, already dropping back into sleep. In just a few moments his breath has evened and slowed, and his fingers around Derek's hand grow heavy and warm.

On this side of the house you can't hear the waves as much, but you can see the swell of the dormant volcano and the abundant green at its base, past the other small houses that fan out behind them, their walls leaning towards the beach. Derek closes his eyes and breathes in the sweet paper-ink-sand scent of Stiles' skin.

.

He opens them when something sharp punches into his gut and the wind is knocked out of him, and the sun is just peaking over the horizon, making long shadows. The sharp something is Stiles' elbow.

Stiles scrambles out of bed, and even in his haste he's trying to be quiet, unaware that Derek is already awake. He hears a steady stream of, "Shit, shit, _shit!_ " in a sharp whisper.

Stiles flies in and out of the bathroom, toothbrush in his hand, then his mouth, then he's throwing a red t-shirt onto the bed, changing his mind and throwing a blue one instead. He pulls his jeans on as he rushes back to the bathroom again, and nearly chokes when his feet trip him up and he almost lands toothbrush-first on the floor. "This is like the fourth time this month!" He keeps a running monologue, unaware of his alert audience. "I'm so done this time, oh my god. I wonder if the students will cover for me. Ah, maybe Ty. Oh, I should text Ty." And he pats his jeans for his phone, frantically texting when he finds it.

He runs his fingers through his hair until it is reasonably 'brushed,' and Derek watches him snatch his reading glasses - recently acquired - off the coffee table. His messenger bag is slumped on the couch, and he swings the bag over his head and shoulders, does a look-around, and then is turning and dashing out the door, slamming it behind him.

Derek grins. Counts down. Three - two - 

Stiles kicks the door open and throws his messenger bag to the floor, nearly ripping off his shirt - which he had slept in - in his rush to get it off. Derek sits up and throws him the blue shirt, and Stiles catches the bundle, surprised.

"Well, put it on," Derek urges, even though he rather enjoys seeing Stiles shirtless.

Stiles puts it on. Then he is running and smashing his lips against Derek's, who almost yelps in surprise, before turning away again. "I know you did something to my alarm, you fucker," he calls as he sprints outside. "Sabotage!" is the last word Derek hears before the door closes again. He listens for the start of an engine, and then tires crunching, and then Stiles is gone.

Derek stretches his arms over his head, leisurely and slow-as-you-please, feeling the muscles of his abdomen and back tighten and release. His first client isn't until mid-morning, and then after that, not until the early evening. His day stretches out before him. 

Maybe he'll go surfing. Maybe he'll go down to the car shop to ask about that custom piece again. Maybe he'll go to Ululani's for some out-of-this-world shaved ice.

He wanders into the kitchen, scratching his sides, and opens the refrigerator, hoping to find some breakfast. Stiles usually keeps the fridge and pantry pretty well-stocked, having a better mind for these things than Derek. He frowns at what he finds on the shelves.

Maybe he'll be visiting Stiles at school to bring him his lunch.

.

The security guard at the front doors knows his name by now, and she waves him on with a warm, fond smile. A small, battery-powered fan sits on her desk, as well as a huge iced tea. "Every Thursday," she admonishes with a cluck of her tongue and a shake of her head.

"Not _every_ ," Derek protests, because Stiles would want him to, but he knows she's right. He shrugs and lifts up the plastic bag he's carrying as he walks by. 

"One day I will bring him food. That boy is so skinny - not even sharks would like!" She laughs at her own joke, and Derek can't help but chuckle a little at the thought. Stiles has grown into his body over the years, not quite as lanky as before but still lean, and smooth. He walks through the lobby and the hallway of the first floor with the security guard's fading laughter behind him. When he reaches the end of the hall, he takes the stairs two at a time and reaches the third floor without a hitch in his breath.

He hears Stiles before he sees him, ears picking up the familiar voice above all the others. "Yes, but what's our theme, here?" Stiles is asking of his students. "What's he going to get out of it? Why did he do it? C'mon, I need some supporting evidence." He lingers outside of his door, watching through the small square window, as Stiles teaches, gesticulating with his hands and using his whole body to get a point across. Once upon a time he would have thought nothing of interrupting, but now he hesitates, enjoys watching Stiles' fervent attempts at making students _learn_.

Eventually, one of the students sees Derek through the window, and gasps. "Mr. S!" he hears. The student, a young girl with skin coffee-brown and black hair, smiles. "It's your _boyfriend._ "

That's his cue to enter. Derek has long learned to ignore the good-natured, "Oooh," that swells up from every member of the class every time he opens the door to the classroom. Stiles, though, has not.

He frowns, knowing that he's lost the class. "What is it?" Stiles asks testily.

Derek arches a brow. "Just thought you'd be hungry." He places the bag of food - the leftovers from last night, along with a mango that he's sliced up and sprinkled with chili powder - on Stiles' desk in the front-center of the classroom. The class reacts as one: "Awww."

Stiles rolls his eyes but can't keep down the grin pulling at his lips. Derek knows he's trying to stay cross with him for interrupting the lesson.

"Kiss him! To say thank you!" one of the students demand in a high-pitched voice, which of course causes the class to devolve into a mob of young people chanting, "Kiss him, kiss him, kiss him!" Someone starts pounding on the desks in rhythm, and then they all do.

"Oh, come on," Stiles says, reaching for him. Derek goes. He presses a sweet and shallow kiss against Derek's lips. A couple of years ago, Derek would have pushed him into the students and desks at even the thought of showing affection in public. But that was then. Now, Stiles' lips are soft and dry, and when he breaks off the kiss it's just a promise for later things to come.

The class applauds.

As he leaves, Derek hears the beginning of an onslaught of questions: "Where did you guys meet? How long have you been together? Who wears the pants?"

"Well," Stiles is saying, "Seeing as we are both men who identify as men, we also both wear pants," and someone in the class laughs and says, "No, you know what what we mean!" And then Stiles is telling them a story about relationships, and men-with-men and women-with-men and spectrums and wants and needs, and then he asks, "And this guy - don't you think he wanted - no, _needed_ \- something, too?" And just like that the class is back on track.

"You know," the security guard says in passing when Derek is in view of her desk again. "The people, they talk story about you. Not because you love a man. Because you come to the island, and you never leave." She leans forward until she's nearly on top of the little battery-powered fan on her table, an air of secrecy around her. "Where you come from that you never want to go back there?" she asks.

Derek's pulse thrums at the thought of Beacon Hills, at returning. Peter is long gone from the area, but the house still stands, now renovated but empty, and it probably will be for a long time yet. "It's complicated," he tells her, and she sits back with a sigh, nodding.

"Honey," she says. "One thing you learn from me - from the island - is whatever your problem is, it don't need to be."

Derek exits the school, and the sky is a deep, dangerous blue.

The problem is that Stiles followed him to the island, and now he's convinced himself that he really has no reason at all to return.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to "Swell Window" by Zee Avi. I swear this entire series is not completely based on her music but she's got an amazing mood, doesn't she?
> 
> Sugar-sweet, vomit-inducing fluff before the serious business happens.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn't help but think there was something fleeting about Stiles; it was in the ever-present energy thrumming at his fingertips, and in his laugh, and sarcasm, and how sometimes Derek would catch Stiles gazing out into the ocean, unnaturally still and unfocused, and it took longer and longer for Derek to regain his attention every time.

There is a moment when emerging from the bamboo thicket where you seem to enter a vacuum of sound. On the Pipiwai Trail you step from concrete block to concrete block like a child playing a game, afraid to fall into the in between where the mud is cold and greedy. Bamboo rises thick and green and grand on both sides, so that when you look up all you see is a paintbrush-stroke of blue where the sky should be. 

Derek looks ahead and sees Stiles in his board shorts and thin t-shirt and sandals, long legs taking the steps between each concrete block easily, and his shirt is nearly translucent from the humidity and sweat and clinging to him like a second skin. He has a tote bag hanging from one shoulder, bulky from their water bottles and sunglasses and a few cans of beer. Even farther ahead, past Stiles, he sees where the bamboo has thinned and disappeared, and hears the rush of water that promises what is past his view.

Stiles had wanted to come, had complained that in all their time living here they had never walked this trail, even though it was mostly for tourists, but it was supposed to be beautiful, anyway, and if they went early enough in the day the tourists wouldn't have woken up yet from their beach-bonfire hangovers, and it could be great, and they could sneak some beer onto the trail and celebrate reaching the end, and if there weren't any tourists around - well, he'd always wanted to try it under a waterfall. This rambling sentence paired with the fact that he had already requested a personal day and planned out the entire trip was what tipped the scale for Derek, even though he pointed out, "That waterfall is over 400 feet tall, and doing anything under it will probably kill you."

"I've dealt with worse, you are well aware," Stiles joked, flippant, but it made something tighten in Derek's chest, made him think of Beacon Hills and wonder if Stiles still considered Beacon Hills home, and this island life merely a vacation.

He couldn't help but think there was something fleeting about Stiles; it was in the ever-present energy thrumming at his fingertips, and in his laugh, and sarcasm, and how sometimes Derek would catch Stiles gazing out into the ocean, unnaturally still and unfocused, and it took longer and longer for Derek to regain his attention every time. He knew Stiles loved it, here, but he also knew Stiles' legs itched to run.

It was why he adapted so well to Pack life.

"Don't tell him you're thinking that," Erica warned him once over the phone. Her calls had dwindled to a once-up-week update. Sometimes she put him on speaker so that Isaac and Boyd could join the conversation, but today it was just the two of them. He played with a loose thread in the hem of his shirt. "He'll take it the wrong way."

"You mean he'll finally see how he could be doing much better things with his life?"

"Always so negative." Erica tutted. He could sense her sighing in exasperation. "To be totally fair, I can't say that wasting your life _in Hawaii_ is such a bad way to go."

"So it's okay, but only because we're in paradise."

"You are so difficult. Jesus, it's like you want him to go somewhere else." She was reaching the end of her patience.

"It's not that. It's just." He couldn't say it; the idea was there but his lips refused to form the words. Luckily, Erica caught the meaning and said it for him:

"What? You want him to be happy?"

She took his silence as agreement, and sighed again, this time more sympathetic. "You closet romantic sap. Listen, you weren't around when he found out you left, okay? He wasn't - He was really angry. Lydia told me about it, a little. It wasn't a shining moment for him, okay? And now if he wants to be in Hawaii with you and - I don't know - dress up like a panda and go surfing, then he should be able to, and you - you shouldn't really question it, you big dumb alpha."

It was the closest thing to her heaving guilt into his shoulders without actually doing so, though he flinched still at the reminder that he had caused grief.

Derek still marveled over that. _He_ left, and people were affected by it, and not in a positive way.

Suddenly he didn't want to talk about it anymore. He didn't want to think about Stiles leaving his dad and his friends and California to be with _Derek_ , of all people, and how the only way Stiles could get out was by boat or by plane. "I don't think he'd dress up as a panda," he told Erica. "Maybe Spider-Man."

And she laughed and talked about this new bar the trio had discovered in the Lower East Side, underground and grunge and stinking of wolf.

Now, he laughs when he sees Stiles leaping from block to block to the end of the bamboo forest. He's been eager and energetic this entire hike, running ahead to see the watering holes and tropical flora, then running back to tell Derek what he had discovered. Like a puppy. He stops when Stiles disappears around the thick green stalks, disappears into that vacuum of sound, voice like it's been sucked out of him when Derek follows and steps into it himself, and sees the waterfall.

It is not soundless at all, but the rush of water drowns out everything else, even the heartbeats of the few tourists gathered around the sight, standing at the foot of a looming cliff face as the waterfall crashes through its trajectory, lush green on all sides.

Stiles is on his left and snapping a photo with his cell phone. He seems to realize that Derek is there as well, and pulls on his hand to catch a photo of them together with the waterfall in the background. Derek rolls his eyes. The fall thunders behind them.

They find a flat slab of rock a short distance away from the base of the falls, wet from both the humidity and the spray, and rest there, Stiles cross-legged and leaning back onto his hands, and Derek lounging fully on his back. He catches Stiles eyeing the line of his body, and smirks. The spray of the fall covers them in a constant mist, and it isn't long before Stiles is shedding his shirt and using it like a pillow to lay down next to him, hands behind his head, one elbow brushing Derek's ear.

"Anything else you wanted to do on your personal day?" His voice is rough from lack of use, but he knows Stiles hears him.

"No," Stiles says simply, and Derek turns to look at him. A surprisingly short answer for someone usually so verbose. Stiles says, "It's beautiful, isn't it?" Water collects like dew over his skin; he closes his eyes and there are tiny droplets there, as well.

"Yeah," Derek admits. "It is." He watches Stiles watch the sky.

.

The way back sees the trail populated by pockets of tourists, skin angry red but still pale underneath with backpacks and a few wailing children, all trudging through the mud in order to see a sight that the manuals say only Hawaii can provide.

Alcohol always makes Stiles a little sleepy after the fact, while Derek's system simply burns it away or converts it into pure energy or something that Deaton and science haven't quite been able to work out. What this means is that the trek back to the beginning of the trail takes much longer than the hike going the other direction, and by the time they are within shuffling distance to the bike - Stiles', and he had adamantly refused to drive to Pipiwai in Derek's _Camaro_ , thank you very much - Stiles gratefully hands over the keys and lets Derek straddle the front while Stiles clambers over behind, almost immediately tucking his head into the space between Derek's shoulder blades as he revs up the engine.

It's an old machine, definitely headed for the scrap yard in the next year or two, but it gets the job done and has a certain charm to it, like Stiles' jeep had. The bike sputters to life and Derek takes it slow on the highway, Stiles' arms wrapped tight around his waist.

He has a thought as the sky loses light and turns inky purple with pink at its edges: Here on this highway with the ocean on his left and the island on his right, the road ahead looks like it stretches out to infinity, and all he has is a bike with half a tank of gas and some mostly-empty water bottles and a few crushed cans of beer in a tote bag and Stiles like a warm anchor behind him, and how long could he follow that road, if asked?

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So originally I was going to post this stand-alone but then I realized that I'm thinking of a longer story, anyway, more continuous, so here we are.


	3. Chapter 3

The bed vibrates. Derek throws out an arm to pinpoint the exact epicenter of the tremors, and discovers Stiles' phone, slim and still warm, discarded within the covers. He digs it out, grunting and refusing to move from the comfortable position he has found on his side, squinting at the screen. Scott.

"Hello," he mumbles into the phone. Stiles left just over half an hour ago to make it to the high school on time. Of course he would forget his phone.

"Stiles? Stiles, I need you to - God, um. Where are you? I need you to get a glass of water, and sit down with someone, okay?" The absurdity of the request and the rough, unhappy tenor of Scott's voice causes Derek to sit up, scrubbing his eyes as he does so. Outside, the sky is a pale, cloudy blue. Promising rain. Derek can smell the damp in the air.

"What? What happened? This is Derek," he adds belatedly.

Scott is silent for a moment, and it feels like he's holding his breath. Then he says, "Where's Stiles?"

"Work," Derek grunts. "He forgot his phone."

"Okay, okay," Scott says. "Okay," like repeating the word will help to settle this thoughts. Derek's heart rate picks up, sensing bad news in Scott's trepidation.

He's right.

"I'm trying to reach Stiles because his dad is - his dad has been - "

"Spit it out," Derek growls, the anticipation making his heart thrum.

Static on the line. Scott takes a breath, and all in a rush, the words tumble out of him: "He's been shot - he got a call last night, hostage situation, it's - it was on the news and everything, and everything has calmed down now but Sheriff Stilinski was shot and it's - Derek, it's pretty bad."

The nape of his neck itches from the little hairs there standing on end. Noise recedes, until Derek is hyperaware of the steady thump of his heart, and it seems impossibly loud and slow, and then he realizes that it's not his heart he's listening to, but the rhythmic crashing of the waves.

"Derek?"

"Yeah," he manages to choke out. Stiles needs to go back to Beacon Hills. Stiles loves his father too much to let him recover in a hospital bed alone. Stiles could have been there this whole time. Stiles _should_ have been there, this whole time. The air grows thick around him, and it's hard to breathe.

"Derek, he needs to know." Scott is impossibly patient. He's grown to be that way. Derek wonders if Stiles had anything to do with it.

"I know. I know - I'll tell him. I should be the one to - Thank you for calling, Scott."

"I can tell him, if you want," Scott offers graciously like a lifeline. "I was going to, anyway."

"No, I." Derek grits his teeth. He can't sit with this information for the whole day, waiting for Stiles to come home and not knowing what to expect, with the knowledge that his dad is laid up in a ward, struggling. "How bad is it?"

Scott tells him.

.

The security guard has brought a paper fan with her in lieu of using the battery-powered one. She swings it leisurely back and forth, and smiles when Derek enters. "No lunch this time?" She clucks her tongue. "It's not Thursday!"

Derek lifts his lips in something he hopes resembles a smile, but feels more like he's curling his lips over his teeth in a snarl. "He forgot his phone, this time," and it's not a lie.

She nods, waving him on. "Don't know what Mr. S would do without you, his big _haole_ guard."

"I've lived here long enough," Derek protests, skin burning under the label. It usually doesn't bother him, but this time, he feels the word settle somewhere in his gut uncomfortably. _Haole_ , mainlander, outsider.

"You leave this island and eventually you go back to the pale skin you were born in. Me? I'm brown all the way down." She grins, softening the blow. "But I know you know this island better than some of my cousins. And that's not small."

Derek huffs, not willing to let himself be appeased. Stiles' phone burns a hole in his pocket. "I have to go," he says, a little briskly, but if it's rude she doesn't seem to mind, and she sits back and chuckles fondly at him.

He walks down the hallway, takes the steps two at a time, and ends up on the third floor landing before he realizes. He fidgets before opening the doors into the hallway, uncertainty keeping him from entering like he usually does. Stiles' voice filters through the walls and other sounds and reaches his ears like it's specifically seeking Derek out, drawing him forward, and with a grimace, he pushes open the doors and steps through.This time, he stops by the main office first, and the administrative assistant there raises his eyebrows in surprise. He's an older man who has been working at this school for years, and has since the first time Derek stepped into the building and went through what he considered a rigorous screening process, insisted that he no longer needed to check-in. "Mr. Hale," he greets, and it's a marvel that he still remembers Derek's name. "How can I help you?"

"I need to speak with Stiles." He has an unnerving straight-edged stare. Derek is no stranger to prolonged glaring, but the unrelenting attention behind this man's look makes him bristle like a watched dog. "There's been an emergency and, ah, I think he'll need the rest of the day. Maybe more."

The man doesn't even blink. He picks up the phone in one corner of his desk, calmly dials an extension, and says, "We need coverage for room 324. Mr. Stilinski has a family emergency he needs to attend to." He nods once, makes a sound of affirmation, and then covers the mouth piece and tells Derek, "You can go to him. I will step out after a moment so that you can use this office to have your conversation." Then he returns to the person on the phone, having dismissed Derek.

There's a moment where Derek is stunned into inaction at how quickly he's been dealt with, but the moment passes quickly, and so he turns abruptly on his heel to find Stiles. He's no more than three steps out of the main office when Stiles' voice rings out in the hallway, confusion evident there, in the soft patter of his footfalls as he closes the distance between them. "Derek?"

He freezes, sees Stiles in his jeans and flip-flops and red v-neck, his messenger bag slung over his shoulders. His lips are parted and his eyes are very wide. He hears how his heart ratchets up a notch from the silence, and Derek frowns at himself. What did Scott say this morning over the phone when he thought he was Stiles? "Let's go sit in the office," he says softly, alarmed when that only causes Stiles' heart to spike suddenly.

He guides him with an arm slung around his waist, into the office, empty now in the short seconds since talking to the assistant. He sits him down at the little table in the center of the room. There's a water cooler in one corner, so he fills up two paper cups and sets them down in front of Stiles before taking the seat next to him. His shirt sticks to his skin uncomfortably.

"You are really freaking me out, here," Stiles confesses, voice breaking towards the end. His heart has not slowed. "What's going on? Why am I being pulled out of class? Derek?"

Derek holds out his hands in a universal _slow down_ gesture and speaks quietly, like talking down a trapped animal. "Listen - it's fine, okay? I have bad news. I'm going to tell you, but I need you to remember to breathe. Got that?"

Stiles nods, a jerking motion, and takes an exaggerated breath. It's purely for show, since his heart continues to hammer away in his chest. "Yeah, yeah, okay."

"Okay." Derek nods, uncertain now how to start. There is no gentle way to do this. "There's been an accident," he says, eyes narrowing when Stiles' breath catches audibly in his throat. "Your dad's in the hospital, and he's recovering, but…it's going to be a long time," he finishes lamely, skirting over the more delicate details; like how the Sheriff was in ICU for the whole night; like how his heart had given out, once; like how even if he recovered the hospital wasn't sure he would or should return to the force.

Stiles only gulps, his face drained of color, and when he speaks it is with a thin, strained voice. "I need something to breathe into, I need - "

Panic always leaves a metallic trace in the air, and Derek's nose picks up the scent before his eyes can see it. Stiles' heart ricocheting off the walls of his chest like an angry hummingbird, his breath coming in shorter and shorter spurts, the skin around his eyes tightening. He grips Derek's hand fiercely, his fingers like claws, and Derek holds on just as tightly.

"I need," Stiles says again, heaving. Derek matches him, breath for breath.

"You need to breathe, you need to take control of this, just like you've learned in the past. Look at me."

Stiles looks. His eyes lock on Derek's, and with effort, he begins to match the rise-and-fall of Derek's shoulders.

"That's it," Derek coaxes, feeling a little out of breath himself. "Come out of this like always. That's it. That's it."

Stiles slumps, nearly braining himself on the edge of the table, and forces his head between his knees. Derek rubs a broad hand over his back while his breathing returns to normal, finding comfort in the continuous movement. Stiles hums when the hand turns into a finger tracing circles over his back, and then shifts so that he can lay his chin on his forearms on the surface. His eyes are threatening wet and Derek can smell salt in the air - more than the usual - but at least he is breathing.

"Well, then," Stiles murmurs, cheeks regaining their color and then flushing a little with undeserved embarrassment. "I'm sure that was as great an experience for you as it was for me."

"It's fine," Derek tells him, continuing to trace circles. "It's always fine."

He gives a little hiccup at that, a laugh or a gasp or something else caught in his throat. "I guess I'll be going home, then," he says wearily. Derek blinks at the word 'home' but doesn't say anything. He'd always known, anyway.

"You should." Derek pulls out a paper from his pocket that's been folded into thirds. "As soon as possible." He sets the paper down in front of Stiles and holds his breath.

Stiles picks it up between his fingers as though it's spun of sugar, unfolds it just as carefully. He stares, and the salt in the air bursts with new life, and it's one thing to expect it but another thing altogether to see it: tears spilling over onto Stiles' cheeks, curving over his jaw and making dark red spots on his shirt. Laughter escapes from him, a small huff that sounds forced and a little sad, and he says, "You bought me a ticket."

"You should go see your dad," Derek explains, voice still soft, though Stiles' initial panic has subsided. Something else begins to take its place, something thick and smoky. The paper crinkles from how tightly Stiles holds on to it.

"You bought me a ticket," Stiles says again, though this time there is more. "Just the one."

"I," Derek says, but he stops, snapping his jaw shut abruptly. "You deserve to be home."

Stiles _growls_. He throws his hands into his hair in frustration, and even goes so far as to stamp his feet like a child having a fit while still in his chair. He makes a broken noise that causes Derek to jump, and shrugs away the hand that had been providing comfort. Derek drops his arms, hurt. "Oh my _god_ , Derek, I can't - I can't. Just. Jesus Christ, take me home. I need to pack."

He sniffs, rising, and resolutely does not look back at Derek once while they exit the school.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, Papa Stilinski. Really and truly.
> 
> Also, because every Sterek fic needs at least one instance in which Stiles is on the verge of or engaged in a Panic Attack.

**Author's Note:**

> Come play with me on [tumblr](http://andnowforyaya.tumblr.com/).


End file.
